


restless

by chamaenerion



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Slash, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28497591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamaenerion/pseuds/chamaenerion
Summary: Geralt doesn't always have the words to ask for what he needs, but Jaskier is ready to help him anyway.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 271
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	restless

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for moretomhardy for The Witcher Secret Santa over on tumblr, for the prompts hurt!Geralt and mutual pining. Happy new year!

It has been a long day, and the sun has not yet begun to set. Every bit of sunshine that makes it through the trees seems to pierce Geralt’s skull. It is always agony to take his potions in the daylight, but he’d had no choice. His heightened senses are beginning to wear off, but not quickly enough.

Jaskier walks the trail ahead of him and hums lightly, occasionally trying out a few lyrics or strumming a chord on his lute.

For a while, Geralt closes his eyes and walks beside Roach. He trusts her to keep him steady while he gives into the urge to rest his eyes. They follow the soft musical sounds as Jaskier leads the way until Geralt can no longer stand the sharp pain in his head.

He opens his eyes and is grateful to see that dusk will soon darken the sky. For now, the light is nothing less than a dagger between the eyes. Geralt grunts and tugs at Roach's reins to halt their journey.

“Jaskier,” he barks, teeth clenched against the renewed pain behind his eyes. “Time to make camp.” He waves a hand to one side of the path. “There.”

Jaskier turns on his heel, but continues to walk the trail backwards. "Isn't it rather early to-"

Geralt ignores him and turns abruptly to lead Roach where they need to go. He wants to rest, and not just meditate either, but sleep properly through a whole night and somewhere comfortable. Every year on the Path strengthened the pull of Kaer Morhen and its few but essential comforts. Despite its crumbling walls and the memories that haunt every corner, it is the one place Geralt feels at ease. He always slept better there than he does anywhere else.

He kicks a rock out of the patch of dirt he claimed as his own for the night and drops his bedroll to the ground.

"Are you hurt?" Jaskier asks as he gently places his lute next to his own bedroll. "Is that why we're making camp so early? Geralt, you should have told me, if you have a wound that needs patching we should have taken care of that before we left town."

Geralt grunts at him. There isn't anything Jaskier can do to help, it's not like bathing a scratch or bandaging a deep wound. The only things Geralt needs are darkness and rest.

He would prefer to go without a fire tonight, but winter is nearly upon them and the tip of Jaskier's nose has been slowly growing red for hours.

"Kindling," Geralt manages to say and turns abruptly to walk beyond the trees that line their small camp.

When he returns with an armful of the driest twigs he could find, Jaskier's eyes follow him from where he is removing Roach's tack with great care.

Geralt starts a fire, his movements stiff and deliberately paced to use minimal effort.

"Are you alright?" Jaskier asks, and despite his quiet tone Geralt feels the words pierce his mind as sharp as any blade. "I didn't see any blood, but sometimes it's hard to tell with you. You know, it's all the black, you should really consider expanding your wardrobe. I know we've discussed this before but I would be more than happy to provide fashion tips. As I'm sure you've noticed, by my own impeccable taste, I am more than qualified-"

Geralt holds out one hand; not quite a plea but lacks the energy for a demand. "Jaskier." With his other hand he presses two fingers to his temple in a display of weakness that is unacceptable, but without anyone but Jaskier to see it he allows himself the indulgence.

Eyes now closed, Geralt hears rather than sees Jaskier's mouth snap shut.

The forest around them is silent for a moment, or as silent as a forest can be, and then Jaskier whispers, "Can I help?"

Geralt tries to speak but his jaw is clenched so tight that all he can manage is another, "Hm."

Then there is the shuffled sound of boots over dirt and fallen leaves. Geralt listens to his approach and does not move from where he is knelt before the flames. The heat is welcome on his face even if the light that penetrates his eyelids is not. A twig snaps suddenly when Jaskier joins him on the ground. Geralt can barely repress the urge to flinch at the sound. Perhaps he should return to Kaer Morhen a few weeks early this year, if this is what has become of his defenses.

It takes him a full second longer than it should to notice that his body has angled itself away from the fire and toward the bard at his side.

It's unacceptable. His body craves the soft way Jaskier handles him when he is injured, and it's something he never should have allowed to happen at all. His body was not remade for gentle touches but to tolerate unimaginable pain.

"It's your head, isn't it," Jaskier whispers. "I didn't see you hit it, though, and there is no blood in your hair." There is a rustle of cloth and Geralt can feel the heat of Jaskier's hand a hairs breadth away from the side of his face. "May I?"

And this is the danger in Jaskier's proximity, because Geralt says, "Yes."

The first slide of Jaskier's deft fingers through Geralt's hair isn't perfect. His hand tangles in knots and Geralt braces for pain that never comes.

Jaskier smooths the way with a touch that is so gentle it nearly lulls Geralt to sleep as he kneels by the fire.

Geralt wants. He wants and wants and it's a horrible thing. His head is full of want and all of the words that never make it past his lips, but that's not where this hurts.

The want is an emptiness in his chest, a cavernous void that aches for care, for comfort. For everything he can never allow himself to ask for.

"I don't feel any cuts or bumps," Jaskier says eventually. His hand slides down to the back of Geralt’s neck and he leans into the feeling before he can stop himself.

Before Geralt has the chance to fall further into this ruin, he tries to put an end to it. "It's nothing, just a headache. You don't have to-"

"I know," Jaskier interrupts, "but I'd like to help, if you'll allow me."

Finally, Geralt opens his eyes to ask, "Why?"

Jaskier's open expression furrows into confusion. "Why shouldn't I? You're in pain." His eyes bore into Geralt's in the fading light and Geralt pretends he does not see the emotions laid bare there.

"I'll be fine," Geralt says. He hates the words despite their inherent truth. 

Jaskier sighs. His hand never stops its gentle caress.

There is no end to the want that builds within Geralt’s chest. "Would you..." The words crowding his mind have grown too loud, begging to be spoken, but Geralt stops himself. He clenches his hands into fists and closes his eyes against the glow of firelight on Jaskier's face now that night has fallen around them. No, he will not ask for this. He does not deserve this kindness.

"Anything you want," Jaskier promises without hesitation. Without even hearing the rest of the question.

"Don't stop." The words tear out of Geralt’s throat, a growl that manages to sound helplessly like a question.

Jaskier's hand trails a path of heat to his jaw. "Oh, Geralt," he whispers. "Come here." The softest pressure from Jaskier's fingertips guides Geralt to the ground, to Jaskier's lap.

The thick, expensive fabric is a welcome cushion beneath his head, but Geralt can feel the layer of grime he will leave behind. Witchers are not meant for such fine things as this.

"Stop that," Jaskier scolds softly, "whatever you're thinking that's making you frown so severely. It's no wonder you have a headache. Try to relax, I've been told these hands can work miracles."

And now that Jaskier has both hands in his hair, Geralt isn't sure that's an exaggeration. Something he imagines might be contentment settles over him while Jaskier's fingers alternate between light scratches and gentle pressure.

It's not long before there's another thought fighting through Geralt's mind. If he's reached this far already he might as well make the most of it.

Come with me, he thinks again and again, and pictures the halls of Kaer Morhen alight with new melodies to chase away old memories.

But he loses himself in the feeling of being so surrounded by Jaskier that before he's able to form the thought into words, Jaskier's hands slow to a stop.

"Better?" he asks.

And Geralt can only respond with an affirmative hum.

"Good, I'm starving." Jaskier's hand brushes over his hair once more before he pulls away. "Why don't you rest a while and I'll make us something to eat?"

Tomorrow, he thinks. He will ask Jaskier tomorrow, if he can find the words.

Tonight, Jaskier smiles at him from across the fire and it is more than enough.


End file.
